


Weight

by orphan_account



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: 1.03 coda, Canon-Typical Gore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t matter if he’s not okay now, because he will be when they get to Mexico.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weight

It doesn’t matter if he’s not fine now, because he’ll be okay when they get to Mexico.

It’s what Seth keeps telling himself as he studies the mutilated corpse of Monica the Bank Teller, eyes carved out like pumpkins and placed in her upturned hands like some sort of offering. 

Richie is still in his arms, shaking like a leaf in a storm now that the shock’s worn off. Seth tries to pull away—can’t do anything from here, can’t fix this _mess_ from here—but Richie just holds on tighter, sending vibrations through his skin from how hard he’s trembling.

“Hey, come on,” Seth says, soft but authoritative. It hurts like hell to see Richie like this, scares him more than he’ll ever admit, but there’s so much shit to take care of now _because_ of Richie, and it’s not going to get fixed this way.

Richie only shakes harder, arms tightening like a vice around his middle. 

“Hey, no, come on.” Seth strengthens his voice and pushes firmly against Richie’s shoulders, enough to press him back just a bit.

Richie jerks away like he’s been burned, leaving a rush of cold air to fill the space he’d occupied. He backs against the wall and wraps his arms around himself like he’s trying to mimic the embrace Seth held him in seconds before.

Seth sighs harshly and turns to survey the damage. The sight is just as shocking and revolting as before and sends a cold shiver down Seth’s spine. He breathes in a lungful of hot, blood-soaked air to keep himself relatively grounded. Now’s not the time to lose his grip. Someone’s got to stay sane here.

When he speaks, he graciously sounds calmer than he feels. “Okay, this is bad, but it’s fixable bad. We just need to get some—”

Seth stops mid-sentence at the sight of Richie, huddled on the ground and shaking harder than before. Seth’s on the floor and crawling to him in a heartbeat, hands out like he’s approaching a dangerous, feral animal. He’s all bundled, directionless energy now, and while Seth has never been really afraid of his brother, he’s still afraid enough for him to take caution. 

He manages to grab Richie’s biceps and hold him back from where he’s clutching his knees, but he doesn’t try anything further. “Stay with me, okay? What’s gotten into you?”

Richie doesn’t answer, but Seth isn’t really expecting him to—doesn't think he’d want the answer anyway. He presses his luck by leaning in and encasing Richie in another hug, tight enough to restrict some of his movements. The shaking doesn’t stop completely, but it does dies down to a subtle tremble.

The smell of blood is pungent in the room, so Seth buries his nose in Richie’s neck to breathe in the clean shampoo and gel scent of his hair. Richie’s arms snake around him again. 

“Hey,” Seth says, trying to ease as much warning in his voice as he can without ticking Richie off. “Hey, no. We gotta—”

Richie pulls back far enough to crush his lips against his brother’s. Seth falls back in shock, bringing Richie tumbling down with him. His head smacks against the cheap carpet floor and breaks the kiss, but Richie doesn’t let up. By the time Seth’s mind stops reeling, Richie’s already half hard and getting bigger, grinding his hips down roughtly against Seth’s.

Instinctively, Seth lets his legs fall further open and grasps at Richie’s arms. It feels like a flip has been switched and his body is now on autopilot, intimately connected to everything that is Richie. He’s still slightly dazed, feels like he’s missing something important, but his dick is growing harder by the minute and it feels so good to be back here again.

Still, the unease in the air is enough to bring him back and make him hyperaware of their current situation: the way Richie is pressing in hot and heavy against him, hands roaming up and down his back urgently and hips grinding down rough and desperate, the sound of Richie’s breath harsh and near-hyperventilating right in his ear, the jarring smell of way too much blood soaking a cheap motel bed. The smell makes his stomach roil and his heart drop, even as his dick starts to twitch and fill under Richie’s manic rotations.

It feels like Seth should _do something_. He should stop this, tell Richie no, remind him that they’re not supposed to do this anymore, not until ( _he gets better_ ) they get to Mexico. He should get up and plant Richie in the other room with a Big Kahuna Burger and try to figure out a way to slip out of this motel—this _crime scene_ —and ditch the heat. He should be fixing this mess that Richie has made, keeping his promises and looking out for them both.

Instead, he cups Richie’s face in his shaking hands and whispers, “Yeah, okay. Shh, okay. I got you, buddy. I got you.”

Richie must have been waiting on some sort of confirmation for this, because he’s all over him then, more bruising and demanding than before. He presses Seth down into the floor and balances half his weight on his forearms for purchase as he renews his grinding. Seth does his best to breath around the weight on his chest and ignore the wet spot of _something_ at his back, mind reeling as he tries to keep up with where Richie is taking them. Richie’s hips grind down in earnest, the scratchy drag of their hips meeting more pain than pleasure on Seth’s cock, and it can’t feel too good for him either, but Richie keeps at it like it’s the best damn thing he’s ever felt.

Seth grasps Richie’s shoulders in tight-fisted grips and tries to match his brother’s bruising pace. “It’s okay,” he repeats over and over, like if he says it enough times it really will be.

Richie makes a choked, whimpering noise above him and grinds his hips down harder. Seth grunts in turn, more pain than pleasure. He knows their futile flopping isn’t going to scratch their twin itches, if anything it’ll probably just land them with some serious crotch burns. Pushing up as much as he can, Seth tries to slip a hand between their pressed bodies to paw at the fastenings of Richie’s pants, but Richie doesn’t stop or even slow down, just keeps mindlessly grinding his hips down like he’ll die if he stops.

Eventually Seth gives up on trying to get their pants off, or get a hand on Richie’s dick. There’s no way to add any finesse or efficiency to this, no way to salvage this as anything more than a desperate, dry rut on a blood-splattered motel floor. It’s scorching and strained and bruising and much too fast. It’s the opposite of what Seth had envisioned for them once they got to Mexico and picked this up again; still, it seems a lot more suitable for them now, like it was bound to happen this way whether he wanted it to or not.

“ _Christ_ ,” Seth hisses and opens his legs wider and shifts his hips to better align their cocks through the thick material of their pants. Richie is breathing hot and hard against his neck, deep pants permeated by punched grunts and high, soft whimpers. He’s getting close, Seth knows the tell-tale signs, so he drags his hands up and down Richie’s back, too fast to be soothing but too gentle to be urging. 

“Yeah, that’s it, come on, “ Seth pants, voice like he’s underwater. “Come on, come for me, Richie. Do it for me, please.”

Richie seizes up and comes then, like all he needed to let go was Seth’s permission. The low, guttural noise Richie makes when he comes—so unlike the desperate, helpless whimpers from before— sends a shock straight through Seth’s dick, reminding him how hard he still is. Richie rocks against him a few more times, uncoordinated in a sloppy way instead of a desperate one, and then falls still, his full weight resting on Seth chest.

They lie there together for a while, breathing heavily. The smell of sweat and sex mix with the blood in the air in an oddly serene way, which Seth dutifully tries to ignore. He’s still so hard, but Richie’s calm and still on top of him, not shaking or afraid anymore, and that’s enough for him to just sit and bask for a while.

After a few more moments of content silence, Richie rolls off of him and props himself up on his elbow. Seth cuts his eyes up at his brother and almost laughs at his hair sticking up in awkward, stiff gelled spikes and how his glasses are slightly askew, but Richie’s face looks clearer than before, and Seth can only stare and try not to hope.

Wordlessly, Richie slowly undoes Seth’s pants with one hand, then slides in to cup him in a loose grip. Seth gasps and curses, and Richie chuckles low and almost-mocking in that way of his. He sounds so much like himself in that moment, so _normal_ that Seth can only smile.

“You’re so wet,” Richie slurs, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “You always get so wet, like a girl.”

“Shut up, Richie.” Seth says, more out of habit than anything. Richie just chuckles and rubs his thumb over the crown of Seth’s dick, turning Seth’s mind blissfully blank and shutting him up instead.

Richie’s hand works fast and sure on his dick with an almost methodical air. He knows just how to twist his wrist, just how much pressure to apply to make Seth see fucking stars. It’s because Richie is so _good_ at it, so good at reading him and knowing what he wants, what he needs. It’s Richie being in control again, of himself and the situation, and it makes Seth ache for more than just the promise of wet, hot relief.

Pressure is building up at the base of his spine, his stomach clenching up as sharp spikes of pleasure escalate enough to make his legs jerk. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Richie nods, eyes on where he’s rubbing Seth’s precome messily over his cock. The intent in his gaze is enough to make Seth’s breath hitch. “I know.”

Seth comes with his hand clutching the lapel of Richie’s suit, hips twitching up into his brother’s fist and bells ringing in his ears. Richie strokes him through to the last drop, then rubs his come-covered hand against Seth’s pants pointedly.

Seth doesn’t "doesn't bother commenting on it, just closes his eyes and breathes. His mind feels foggy and heavy, the good kind, like being just buzzed enough to keep bad thoughts at bay. He feels Richie shifting next to him, and then stillness. 

When he opens his eyes, the sweet, heavy feeling is replaced with a bitter lead, dragging him back to the reality of their situation. Richie is staring at the bed where Monica the Bank Teller is lying like some sort of Stephen King-style crucifixion. It’s a jarring reminder of where they are and what they’re doing, and Seth is on his feet even before his heart starts beating again.

Fumbling with his pants, Seth surveys the damage and runs through a list of options in his head. 

“Richie?” 

Richie turns slowly to him, face blank. “Go to the other room and eat, all right? I’ve gotta—” he waves Monica—the _corpse_ —on the bed to finish his point. 

Richie gets up with way more control and dignity than a man who just creamed his pants should have and pins his brother with a wroth look. Before he can say anything, Seth raises a placating hand. “You’ve gotta get cleaned up and figure out a way for us to get out of this thing, right? Let me do the grunt work here. You take care of the specifics.”

As expected, Richie relaxes and nods, clutching his wounded hang loosely. Seth stops him with a hand on his arm before he slips out of the room completely. At Richie’s confused look he gives a reassuring smile. “We’re gonna be fine, all right?”

Richie nods, but he doesn’t look as sure as he did before, looks lost and way too young, and it makes something twist hard and ugly inside Seth. Hesitating only a second, Seth brings his lips to his brother’s, soft and chaste, and pulls away just enough to speak, so his next words come out raw and earnest in the puffs of breaths they share. “I promise.”

He just wishes it didn’t feel like a lie.


End file.
